


Touch.

by DrunkSoup (Muqington)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Cute, Drabble, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4016140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muqington/pseuds/DrunkSoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You want to fuss over him. You don’t. He can handle himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch.

Tracing fingers over his lips. Touching foreheads together. Burying faces in each other’s collars. Sure, you weren’t perfect, but who honestly could be? You were a mage. He was an ex-slave. Of a Magister. He has intentions, and they aren’t always good, but you can understand them. He went through the pain first hand. He had lyrium driven under his skin. He had to endure every second of it, more than likely without making a noise.

You’ve never been more proud in your life to be tangled up under the covers with someone.

He’s endured hell and back. He’s been at the lowest of the bottom tier and he’s worked his way not just into your life, but into your heart and definitely into your bed, in the best possible way, no sexual connotation intended.

And what have you endured? Sure, you saved Kirkwall from near destruction, and you’d entered the fade more than once, coming out untouched and unharmed. But the torments of demons were nothing compared to his, and you have no intention of having that argument.

You want to fuss over him. You don’t. He can handle himself.

His breath is so quiet. He almost seems small and dainty stripped out of his armor and curled amid the sheets of your bed. You know better.

You feel calm. Quiet. Finally. You can only hope he feels the same. 

You don’t realize you've closed your eyes until you feel the hand - so gentle as in fear to wake you - tracing the line of your cheekbones. You keep your eyes shut, but his hand draws away. You want to look. You want to scoop him up and kiss him under the stars. You’re too sappy.

He probably knows you’re awake. You snore when you’re asleep. You often wonder if it wakes him up. If it does, he never mentions it.

You peek out juuuuust slightly. Barely open your eyes and squint. He notices. You can only try to shut your eyes and hope he doesn’t think much of it. He shifts. Presses his pelvis close to yours. He slips his leg between yours and presses the roughness of his heel to your calf. His feet are warm. What a pleasant surprise.

Your skin is so much rougher than his. You have a rough scar on your face - from what, you don’t remember - and your skin isn’t nearly as smooth and refined as his, even over those dreaded markings branded into his arms, legs, chest, throat... He buries his face in your shoulder. You take the opportunity to press a kiss at his temple. If he thought you were asleep still, that dream’s been shattered.

He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh. He probably didn’t mean to. It’s like those noises that come out of your throat when you yawn by mistake, or when your brain tells you you should say something but your body is resisting. A stutter of speech. Your arm rests lazily over the slight curve before his hip. You’d think him fragile if you didn’t know any better. But he’s built so much differently than you. Even if you’ve got a nice layer of muscle on your arms, he can carry so much more than you and swing a greatsword twice as long as he is tall. 

He’s incredible.

You lay there with him all tucked up against you, and your thoughts are all over the place. You’re incredibly lucky to have him in your bed. You’re incredibly lucky to have the privilege of arguing with him. Lucky to drag him with you to sleep. Drag him anywhere, really. He goes willingly. A miracle.

He touches the tips of his fingers to a spot on your neck. His fingertips are colder than his feet, shockingly so. Your breath hitches in, not quite in a snore, and you can feel the goosebumps start. He knows he sends a shiver down your spine. You can just tell by the way he traces your skin. Flattens his palm right behind your ear. He leans close. You can feel his breath. Soft. Quiet.

He settles for touching his head to yours. An affectionate nuzzle of sorts. He drives you up a wall. Breathes against your skin. It’s comforting and provoking all at the same time. Your arm shifts under him, hand finding his shoulder to press him closer. Your other hand traces the curve of his hip.

You manage to duck your head slow enough to be able to press your lips to his neck without a word of protest. He shifts just enough to slip his arm free from under him and move it under the curve of your neck to wrap around you. A hand in your hair. A kiss to his skin.

He’s soft.

You match your kisses to the feel of his skin.

Soft. Gentle.

He’s breathy. Over your skin. Leaves your nerves prickling for more. Rough pads of your fingers trace the curve his hip makes. He shivers involuntarily. You trace the dip of his back to the hem of his pants, then forward to follow the way his hip forms a v-shape. Lips on his neck. Softer on the branded patches of skin.

You don’t know how he gets closer. A leg between yours. Hips touching. A slow movement. He rolls his hips, you focus on a soft patch of skin.

You don’t need words. His breathy sounds, the way he drags your shoulders closer, everything about him... You’d have to be dumber than a potato to not take the signs. You have been in the past. You like to think those days are gone. You two shift. You end up above him, lips ghosting over his neck.

He manages to capture your wandering lips into a kiss. His knee between your legs, drawn up just enough to set pressure. What time is it? Late, definitely. Maybe early enough in the morning for the sun to try and peek past the horizon soon enough.

It doesn't matter. The room is far from dark. He’s glowing - literally and figuratively. He leaves you breathless with each kiss. He leaves you wanting more. That was his plan, though, wasn't it? To get more? You gladly oblige. 

You don’t know where your clothes have been thrown to by the time the sun starts to slip towards the sky. His hair’s a mess beneath you, his fingertips on the back of your neck. You can’t help but give in to look at him. Foreheads touched, his eyes are shut. You’re both strung out on highs, breathing heavy with sweaty palms pressed to each other’s skin. He must have realized you were staring. He cracks his eyes open to meet yours and your breath catches in the best possible way. Dawn breaks. There’s a gentle bluish-grey tint leaking from the windows.

When you roll onto your side, you drag him with you and into your arms where you can press your nose to his hair. He doesn’t to say it. Neither do you. A wordless exchange.

You couldn’t ask for a better person to spend the rest of your days with.

You exchange breathy, near silent affections. Barely whispers of those three words you only string to him and him only to you. Beads of a necklace. One right after another. No longer stumbling or fumbling with the sentiment behind them. 

Free to express.

Free to _feel_. 

_**Free**_. 

A word he’s still trying to comprehend. 

The only thing rough about him now is the soles of his feet. But it doesn't matter. He’s yours, and you’re his.

You wouldn't change a thing.


End file.
